Shades of Grey
by Windbloom
Summary: Hermione explores what evil really is, and isn't, while imprisoned by a lonely psychopath. Torture, humiliation, and hatred abound, and yet empathy, compassion, and perhaps even love may blossom.
1. Chapter 1

_One thing has always bothered me about the way the Harry Potter series was written. Don't get me wrong; I love the books, the characters, and everything. It's just that there seems to be only "good" and "evil" without any in-between. And when we get right down to it, just what is evil? In the Harry Potter series (and many other stories as well) there's this idea that someone does bad things because he is bad. This circular logic is uninteresting and flawed. I know I'm not the only person who likes to try to understand the bad guy. Why, then, do authors create them so shallow and one-dimensionally? Voldemort was, if nothing else, a man obsessed with the fear of death. Who can't relate to that?_

_The purpose of this story is to explore these ideas in a setting that I'd enjoy writing about. Hermione and Bellatrix: two (of my favorite) characters that are in no way right for each other. What series of events could cause them to share something, or to understand each other and see eye to eye (or girl to girl)? What would be the consequence of such a bond?_

* * *

**Mudblood.**

Her dried tears prevent her eyes from opening at first, though opening them does little good. It's somehow darker now than when she'd had them closed. She had wanted to look at the wound, because for a second it hadn't seemed real. None of it had. Now she can feel it again; the stinging bite of pain on her forearm, pulsing with an ever-faster rhythm. She tries to move and speak at the same time, and finds she can do neither. Her throat is dry and she chokes her words. She recognizes it immediately for what it is: a very powerful _Silencio_. Her wrists and ankles are bound. She shuts her eyes tightly, and again she sees it.

Mudblood. The wound. The knife.

Her face.

She can feel a scream at the back of throat, trying desperately to surface. She wants to call for Harry, or Ron, or anyone, really. Where _were_ they? Why weren't they _here_? Where _was_ here? A Cell? An Oubliette? She shivers at the thought, or is it because she's cold? The stonework on the floor and walls is uninvitingly coarse and damp.

She wonders suddenly if perhaps Harry and Ron _are_ here, somewhere in the dark, tied up and charmed as she is. She manages to push herself off the wall she'd been leaning against, and with her hands tied behind her back she tries to push herself (quite clumsily and with the smarting pains and aches to scold her) around the small cell. She hits a few walls and gives up. Nothing.

Time passes. It's impossible to know how much. Her forearm never stops stinging, but her stomach is starting to growl. Other than that, complete silence. She fidgets and strains against her bonds even though she knows she shouldn't. Tries to sleep but can't. Her exemplary mind races in a feverish state beyond panic. She curses her intelligence for the first time in her life. If only she were ignorant enough to not know the effects of sensory deprivation, maybe she'd get through it. But through _what_? For all she knows, she's been left here to die.

She awakes to a sharp knot of pain in her stomach and wonders how she could have fallen asleep. She opens her eyes. The Sword of Godric Griffyndor lies on the ground before her.

"You're a hallucination." She mutters, surprised both at being able to speak and at the very sound of her cracked voice.

The sword sits still, glowing faintly. She shuts her eyes and goes over the important figures and dates of the Goblin Rebellions one by one. After she's satisfied, she opens her eyes. The sword is still there. She tries to control her breathing.

"Go away..!" She whispers hoarsely, looking no longer at the sword and instead at each of the darkened corners of the room. She squints through the darkness, nerves on edge. The sword emits a small rumbling noise as it begins to change form. It shrinks; the handle and blade reform… into Bellatrix Lestrange's knife. Hermione whimpers and tries to back away, hitting the wall as the rumbling grows louder.

Her eyes snap open. She's breathing harshly. She holds her head in her hands, delicate fingers curling into her thick, brown hair. She knows she's losing it.

A door opens.

The light is blinding. She turns away from it on instinct at first. She squints with one eye open to look. In the doorway is a silhouette she recognizes almost instantly. Tall and thin, with long, drifting dark curls of hair. She can see the outline a wand, too. Her heart skips a beat.

"Were you lonely down here all by yourself?"

Hermione cringes at the sound of that saccharine-sick twitter. She presses herself into the wall, straining against her bonds once more out of desperation.

"Oh, don't look so pitiful. You don't know your luck!" Bellatrix Lestrange cries out, almost laughing.

"H-Harry and Ron will be back f—" was all she got out of her quivering lips before the older woman made a powerful jab with her wand and bellowed: "Silencio!"

"That won't do!" Bellatrix nearly whispers, going from sounding threateningly powerful to mockingly sweet in one crazy instant. "We've to move you. We can't have you crying out just yet, can we?"

Tears fill Hermione's eyes, but she resolutely blinks them away. Anywhere is better than here, she thinks, even if it's with the most dangerous, deranged person she's ever come into contact with.

Later, she would realize that she had Bellatrix to thank for keeping her sanity.


	2. Chapter 2

The brightest witch of her year is having trouble thinking. Her solitude had had some strange effects on her. She still can't remember anything between being interrogated by her captor, Bellatrix Lestrange, and waking up in the cell. She's forgotten other things, too. She can't think straight about anything. It doesn't stop her from trying.

She's been moved to some sort of crawl space between rooms. It seems too small to be a closet (surely this couldn't fit a single week of Malfoy family garments), but there's a sliding door that's very obviously locked from without. She can't remember how she got here either. It's cramped, but there are holes that let light in. There's one hole large enough to see through, and, leaning awkwardly forward on her knees with her arms still tied behind her back, she can see a large and luxuriously furnished bedroom on the other side.

There's no one out there. Some dying embers smolder in the fireplace on the far wall. Their warm glow casts a weak light on a cushioned arm chair, some bookshelves, a small table, and a large four-poster bed. A number of strange-looking magical items and artifacts litter the shelves and floor. Hermione finds herself suddenly reminded of the decrepit rooms of 12 Grimmauld Place. She tries to sigh (no sound comes out) and sits back down.

Her wrists and ankles are still tied up and raw, but she's practically used to it now. It's the cuts in her forearm that she can't stop thinking about. She quizzes herself on more important figures and dates to pass the time. She hasn't lost hope. She knows they'll come back for her. She has to stay alive until then. She owes herself that, after everything that's happened.

* * *

A startling cry wakes her. Again she's left wondering how she'd fallen asleep in the first place, but all her wondering comes to a halt when she hears the sound again. It's a strained, anguished scream that rises and then falters to a gasp. She pushes herself up with a shoulder (she's gotten quite good at maneuvering her body like this by now) and peers out the hole in the wooden wall.

Bellatrix Lestrange lies upon the four poster, and appears to be having a nightmare. _Serves her right,_ Hermione thinks to herself. As she continues to watch, however, it seems like something more than just a nightmare. The pale, dark-haired older woman seems trapped, or perhaps possessed. Her eyes are shut tight, and her long, pale arms are wrapped around her shoulders.

"No, I— "She pleads, just before another gut-wrenching cry rips itself from her throat. Hermione looks away. What the hell is going on here? She tries to ignore it, but every shriek and tormented howl brings her closer to despair. After what seems like an eternity things seem to settle down, and closing her eyes brings her to a deep, dreamless sleep.

* * *

The savory aroma of meat brings her to her senses this time. Her body is screaming at her for nourishment, and well before that she'd known that if she didn't at least have water soon she'd be done for. At first she makes to peek out the hole in the wall, but she notices then that the small, closet-like door to the crawlspace has been left ajar. She crawls towards it on her hands and knees. Peeking out of it, she finds the room darker than before. Lit only by a scant few floating candles, it's hard to see much of anything.

The candles hover around a shining platter upon which a plate and goblet sit. Hermione doesn't give herself time to think. She kneels down, lowering her head to take frenzied bites from the roasted potatoes and the huge turkey leg. It's a messy affair without the use of her hands, but she's beyond caring. She lowers her faces over the goblet, the feel of water on her dried out lips and tongue is like heaven.

"The will to live is a powerful thing."

Hermione jumps, nearly knocking the goblet over in the process, as her head snaps up to look into the darkness. She can feel her face flushing a deep red as her clever mind already works it all out.

"Lumos."

A dreary blue light fills one corner of the room. The gaunt, sharp features of the Dark Lords' most loyal follower contrast with the free-flowing curls that shroud her face. Hermione can feel her resolve shrinking into fear. She wants to run back into the crawlspace, and turns her head as if to look for it.

"You refuse to look upon your savior? Consider me surprised." Her voice is slow and languid, drawing out every syllable for her own gratification.

"What are you—"

"Ah, ah. Not yet, you wretched thing," Bellatrix murmurs, and raises the wand like a threat. "Speak when spoken to and only then." She pauses. "A lesson I learned from the Dark Lord. A magnificent teacher, He is, and in this place you would do well to obey him. And me."

Bellatrix stands slowly. The lacey, fluttery darkness of her dress floats like smoke as she walks forward, towards the still-kneeling Hermione. The older witch kicks the platter to the side swiftly. The clatter and clang of it ring in Hermione's ears. She tries to keep breathing.

"Have you ever had something taken from you?"

Hermione's heart races furiously. Bellatrix stands over her, and reaches out to let her wand slide against the young witches' temple. Hermione wants more than anything to scream or turn away, but she can't even move and she's not sure if she's cursed or if it's her own faltering bravery.

"I've lost a great deal since the snatchers brought you among us." The wand slides down Hermione's cheek. "A great deal more than you could ever imagine." Her voice is frigid forced-softness. Hermione can feel the heat beneath it like a curse.

"We didn't… take anything." She whispers meaningfully, hoping that it seems rooted in honesty rather than fear.

The wand at Hermione's cheek travels suddenly to her tender neck, pressing deeply.

"The sword is a fake, yes? Why carry 'round a fake sword, then?"

Hermione's mind blanks. "We…"

"Wrong answer," Bellatrix whispers darkly, and then yells: "Crucio!"

Hermione screams, falling forward immediately as she loses control of her body. It's like nothing she has ever felt, this falling through the limitless depths of pain. Every part of her body is fighting against her. Her blood is flowing backwards. Her brain is disintegrating.

Bellatrix side-steps her and moves behind her. After a few seconds, she lifts her wand. Her black-stocking'd knee rests on the small of Hermione's back, pressing her down into the lavish carpet.

"How was it, mudblood? Have you ever felt something so strong? Does it give your life new meaning?" She speaks over Hermione's gasps in an excited, fanatical tone and sounds like she's about to laugh. "I could destroy you, you know. Break that clever mind of yours; you wouldn't know your own name when I was through."

Hermione slams her eyes shut, fighting back the tears and the sobs. Her back is burning with the weight of Bellatrix's knee. _Survive_, she tells herself.

"What would be the fun in that?" She says shakily, but with a surety that catches her off guard.

Bellatrix lifts herself up and murmurs something under her breath. The bonds around Hermione's wrists and ankles untie.

"Exactly right. Best to draw things out, I think."


	3. Chapter 3

Hermione feels sick every time she looks down at her forearm. The mark Bellatrix carved into her flesh is starting to heal, but what that really means is that it's starting to scar. Hermione had wished for a wand, not to escape or fight back, but if only to properly heal the deep cuts to smoothness again. Her face feels hot and her fists curl up every time the memory finds her. It finds her often.

She'd dreamt of Bellatrix that night. She was a wailing storm that Hermione ran through and got lost in. Every blindingly bright strike of lighting a Cruciatus Curse, and every thunderous boom a bellowing laugh. She awakes in a cold sweat. Unable to sleep any longer causes her to push herself up, a much easier task now that her hands aren't tied behind her back. She bends down and peers out into the room.

Her tired brown eyes narrow. Bellatrix is sleeping soundly, the lucky thing. The cool blue moonlight from a tall window softens her features. Her pale skin almost seems to glow, and it's such a contrast to the raven-black Dark Mark on her forearm. Hermione finds herself staring, and after a moment she tears her gaze away. She slides down against the wall, feeling her heart race but unsure as to why.

* * *

Bellatrix had been out for most of the day. Hermione was starting to wonder. Her thoughts were on the outside. She wondered what Harry and Ron were doing, and stopped herself before she had time to worry. She'd thought things through and realized now that there must something else inside the Lestrange vault of importance to Voldemort. She only hoped Harry and Ron would be able to at least figure that out on their own. She smiles for the first time in a long time, and feels a tear run down her cheek.

The door to the outside room opens suddenly.

"Come, sister. Come and let me explain!"

Bellatrix was back; sounding as maniacal as ever. Her hurried footsteps are followed by another's slower, more careful ones. The door closes, and as Hermione peers through the hole in the wall she watches Bellatrix tighten a few bolts and locks.

"What is all this, Bella?" Narcissa replies slowly. She peers about the room with a reserved expression.

"I have secured for us a great boon, sister." Bellatrix says slowly as she turns. Her eyes gleam with unbridled excitement.

Narcissa stares back at her older sister, unsure if she ought to speak or not. Hermione realizes then that Narcissa's hands are shaking slightly.

"The mudblood that runs with Harry Potter. I have her." She pauses, and then raises a hand, gesturing widely to the room. "Here."

"What?" Narcissa gasps, startled. "You said she had disapparated… with the others."

"She disapparated with me. Into the cellar for safe-keeping." Bellatrix says in an exalted tone as she strides to the armchair and falls into it. She crosses her foot over her leg.

"You.. but why? We should have given her over to Him at the start!" Narcissa begins to lose control, and it shows on her face. "He'd have spared us the torment! Forgiven us! You knew this, so why—"

"Torment?" Bellatrix says shortly, and the word stops Narcissa like a stun.

"It is I who am tormented, sister." Bellatrix nearly whispers as she rises like a beast. "It is I who failed him, and it is I who he comes to in the night, to punish in waking dreams with darker arts than you'll ever witness. Do you have _any_ idea what that feels like?" Her voice slowly rises until it's seeping with liquid anger.

Narcissa says nothing. She looks sullen, resolved not to fight fire with fire. Bellatrix won't have any of it.

"He forbade me from leaving with him! I'm a prisoner here in this wretched place!" She paces back and forth frantically, practically talking to herself now. "If we'd shown Him the girl when he arrived he'd have destroyed her!" She pauses, and turns back to her younger sister, her gaze determined. "No. We need her alive. They'll come back for her. We can capture them and do it right this time."

Narcissa's voice is a soft sigh to Bellatrix's harshness. "Call him now. Call the Dark Lord and have him take the mudblood. All will be forgiven."

Hermione feels sick. She'd been listening, enraptured by the emotion of it, until suddenly remembering that it's _her_ very fate being argued over. Bellatrix turns away towards the unlit fireplace.

"No. We need her alive."

"Don't be foolish, Bella. We—"

"I am no fool! I've taken on the responsibility that you denied. I chose to serve the Dark Lord. Who do you serve? Your husband?" She laughs bitterly. "You will obey me in this. I know what I'm doing."

Bellatrix stands silently with her back to her younger sister who most certainly takes the hint from the tone in her voice that the conversation is finished. As she reaches the door Bellatrix speaks once more.

"Cissy. Make mention of this to no one. Are we clear?"

"Yes." Narcissa replies, sounding cold and defeated as she lets the door close softly behind her.

Hermione pulls away. Her heart is caught in her throat. She feels both relieved and anxious all at once. Bait. That's all Bellatrix sees her as. The ticket to Voldemort's approval. She spent the rest of the day thinking about how she might change things.


	4. Chapter 4

Hermione finds it impossible to sleep through Bellatrix's "waking dreams". The screaming is too loud and haunting to ignore. She can only imagine what's actually happening behind her captor's closed eyes as her body twists and contorts on the large, comfortable-looking bed. Hermione's mind wanders.

She hasn't been let her out of the crawlspace since that first time. Bellatrix, on the other hand, seems to spend a lot of her time outside of her room, only coming back late in the evening to mutter to herself in front of the fireplace for a while before falling asleep. Hermione's entire life (or what's left of it) is scheduled around the comings and goings of this woman. She sleeps (tries to, at least) in the morning, after Bellatrix has gone.

If she'd been kept in that dark cell she'd have lost her mind. She realizes it now and it leaves her feeling torn between thankful and disgusted. Hermione thinks back to the conversation she'd overheard from before. Had Bellatrix "saved" her from Voldemort's wrath? Bellatrix was clever, Hermione thought, to realize that Harry and Ron might come back for her. She half hoped they wouldn't; there were more important tasks at hand. Perhaps they'd find the other horcruxes and kill Voldemort instead. The war would be over, and then she'd be free. A fairy tale ending like that didn't seem likely anymore.

Whenever Hermione feels herself falling into despair she gets up to look out of the hole in the wall. She realizes as she peers out that the screaming has stopped. Bellatrix sits up in bed. She hunches over, rocking back and forth. Her thin arms cradle what seems to be a small, ornately dressed doll in a red dress with blonde curls. Bellatrix is whispering to it. Hermione stills her breath.

"We're fine now. No need to worry." Bellatrix says in a voice softer than Hermione thought possible for the older woman.

"We'll take care of each other, just like we've always done." Bellatrix's hand, the one that jabbed Hermione's neck with the wand and caused her such horrible pain, now strokes the doll's fake curls and straightens her bonnet. Hermione's gut twists with something like warmth.

The sun is rising. The light behind the window is a desaturated red-grey venturing towards orange. Bellatrix sets the doll beside her on the bed and stands up, heading straight for the closet door. Hermione throws herself onto the dusty floor and slams her eyes shut.

The closet door slides open. Hermione jumps and sits up, despite being prepared she's still startled to see the older woman standing in the doorway… and holding up a wand.

"Dragon heartstring."

After Bellatrix speaks there's a long silence. Hermione feels like she's just woken from a dream. After spying on Bellatrix for so long, it's strange to actually be interacting with her.

"W-what..?"

"Your wand. Your wand! Don't be dull!." Bellatrix says hurriedly as she steps closer, holding the wand up now so that Hermione can see. Hermione's eyes widen. It's her wand! Had Bellatrix stolen it back from the Snatchers?

"Y-yes. Dragon heartstring. Vine. Ten and three quarters." She says quickly. It feels so strange to finally speak, but her voice sounds no different save for being a tiny bit hoarse.

Bellatrix stands like a black and silent tower for a few moments more. Then, she tucks the wand away.

"Indeed."

Bellatrix turns and slams the closet door. The lock clicks. Hermione frowns, not quite sure what to make of it. Bellatrix leaves her room immediately.

Hermione sighs. She doesn't like being alone. Not since the time in the cellar dungeon. Where was Bellatrix going, and why did she have to leave her for so long?

Hermione stops herself mid-thought. Is she really wishing for Bellatrix to return?

She shakes her head tries to find solace in sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

Bellatrix Lestrange had looked at it eleven different ways and still she couldn't understand it. She doesn't think herself particularly dense, so it was distressing to be unable to penetrate the heart of it; the reasons and the whys of it.

The mudblood's wand had obeyed her. No. It was more than that. It had _accepted_ her.

She'd been surprised at the power of that thin, girlish-looking wand when she'd used it to torture its very owner. The results were astonishing; they'd taken her breath away. Dragon heartstring could explain it away, but Bellatrix felt that there was something more. It bothered her a great deal.

Diagon Alley is a lovely mess when she arrives there. It's even more derelict than usual. The few souls to travel the beaten cobblestones have their head down and their collars up. The ones brave enough to meet her eyes stop and treat her like a celebrity. A bitingly cold wind pulls at her black curls and dress. She's pretty certain there's a beating in progress down a side alley to her left. A smile spreads across her thin lips as she strides towards Gringott's.

She knows she shouldn't be here. She was forbidden from leaving the Malfoy manor. Still, she had to get out of there. The presence of the mudblood was starting to affect her health. She couldn't stop thinking about her. What she wanted to do to her; what she couldn't do to her. Showing restraint was such hard work!

She curses herself for letting Narcissa in on her secret. Sometimes she forgets how much things have changed since their childhood, and when she remembers, the betrayal of it roils deep in the pit of her stomach. She worries about the mudblood's safety now. It's ironic and she knows it; she hates herself for worrying at all.

She slams the heavy door to Gringott's lobby open in disgust. The goblins working at their high desks pause for a moment. She makes her way over to the central desk with a languid slowness. The large hall stays nearly silent.

"Mrs. Lestrange. A pleasure, as always." The goblin speaks with a silken tongue. His small eyes narrow in what must be appreciation, and he bares small, pointed teeth when he smiles.

"Goblin. Has anyone come to try my vault?"

The goblin pauses for a moment, from puzzlement more so than fear it seems. Bellatrix misreads him and takes it for apprehension. She starts to panic.

"Answer me!" Her icy command echoes in the large room. She can feel her fists balled up, nails digging into the soft flesh of her palms, shaking.

"No one has entered since last you left." The goblin finally says, as if he'd been waiting for her to say something more.

Bellatrix can feel her whole body sigh with relief. The boiling black malevolence, so easy to rise from the depths of her soul, retreats just as easily. Her first thought is that the mudblood had not been lying. She had punished her wrongly, and that very idea was so deliciously cruel to her that she could hardly bear it. When she speaks next she's calm, almost comically so.

"I've come to warn you." She pauses. The goblin leans closer, hard to discern whether it's mockingly or with genuine concern. "My wand has been stolen. The thief will most assuredly try to break into my vault."

"Rest assured we—"

"Don't take me lightly, goblin. If you fail in this I will end you."

The goblin's smile, however much forced, grows wider as he bows further.

"I hear and obey."

* * *

"Lucious, hurry." A hushed whisper wakes Hermione with a start. She tenses up, feeling terrified, sick, and confused all at once. She wonders suddenly if her captor had been keen enough to cast any sort of protective charms, and for a second she contemplates whether Bellatrix even _knows _any defensive spells.

"Did she _say_ where she was keeping her?" Lucious murmurs in his usual nasal drawl. Hermione's veins turn to ice even as her blood boils. So they were going to sneak into Bellatrix's room and steal her, were they? She half hoped Bellatrix would find them and perhaps teach them a lesson.

"No, she just... gestured! She has to be here. There's nowhere else."

"I doubt that. Do you realize how many hidden passages—"

"Shh! Look around; do you see anything?" Narcissa's voice is shaking with nervousness. Hermione thinks this is probably with good reason as she tries to imagine the look on Bellatrix's face after finding them.

Lucious strolls right in front of the hole in the wall. His pant leg blocks out the light. Hermione's heart jumps up to her throat.

"I see nothing. You're _sure_?" He walks away, leaving Hermione to wonder whether they can see the crawlspace entrance at all. She hadn't pegged her captor as someone to cast a protective charm of any sort, but the more she watches the Malfoy's frantic search, the more it dawns on her that Bellatrix must not have left her completely unguarded.

"Of course I'm sure! Do you think I'd risk coming here if I wasn't?" Narcissa's small voice sounds flat and broken. Hermione can hear a few pitiful sobs.

"Come away. There are better ways to find things than using one's eyes."

The door to the room shuts and locks itself from the outside with a small click. Hermione tries to relax, but her hands are shaking.

Should she be satisfied with not being found out? Narcissa would have turned her over to Voldemort, and Hermione didn't want that, but wasn't Bellatrix going to do the same in the long run? If that was the case, why should she endure more suffering than necessary?

An even stranger thought occurred to Hermione then. Why did Bellatrix need Hermione _alive _at all? If she truly believed that Harry and Ron would come for her, what reason was there in keeping her alive and, in so doing, increase the chances for Voldemort to find out about her lie?

There had to be something else; something more that Bellatrix had kept even from her "beloved" sister. Hermione isn't sure whether this will be beneficial to her or not. To be fair, the worst she'd experienced so far was in the dungeon; in the _absence_ of her captor, but she's still terrified of the woman. The pain from the Cruciatus is not so easily forgotten, and living under the same roof as her is certainly having an effect on Hermione in ways that still remain murky at best.

Hermione's weak body curls itself into a ball on the floor as she thinks all of this through. Her muscles ache from disuse. Hunger and anxiety tie her stomach into knots. She tries and fails to fall back asleep. All she finds herself able to do is think. And wait.


	6. Chapter 6

A strange thing happens to Bellatrix Lestrange on her way out of Diagon Alley.

She doesn't stay long in Gringotts at all. She's already halfway across the dusty road before the large double doors of the Wizard's Bank close behind her. She's well aware that she's already stayed past her welcome, and it's with that sort of nagging insistence that she pulls out the mudblood's wand and flicks it once, to disapparate.

Except nothing happens.

After a comical pause and narrowed eyes she tries again, flicking her wrist a little harder this time. Not even a fizzle.

She takes a deep breath and tries to contain the tantrum she can feel coming on. She wants to scream. A wand has never behaved this way in her hands before. Not to her, the gifted one. Where Narcissa had charm, she'd had skill.

There were questions, oh were there questions, but Bellatrix hasn't the time for them. She rushes off into the first inviting direction she can find. Small grey stormclouds loom like engorged buzzards over the abandoned alleyways. It's not long before she finds another scuffle. It's only after she gets closer that she realizes it's the prelude to a rape.

Two snatchers look up and away from a whimpering woman sprawled on the cobblestones. Bellatrix tilts her head to the side, bird-like, and has but to lift her wand before the snatchers jump up and, pulling eachother by the jackets and sleeves as they scramble away.

Bellatrix wastes no time. She draws nearer to the woman, and holds out her thin, skeletal fingers.

"You wand."

"My... wand?" The woman says. Her robe is torn in places, and there's a glistening trail of tears on each cheek.

"Yes. Give it here." Bellatrix commands in a threateningly calm voice.

The woman reaches into her robes and pulls out her wand. Bellatrix wonders then how this woman could have been caught so off guard. She doesn't understand it at all, and the more she contemplates it the angrier she becomes, until she all but snatches the wand from the trembling hand.

The moment her pale fingers wrap around it she tries disapparating.

And nothing happens.

"NO!" She shouts, and throws the wand down. It clatters to the ground with a small wooden sound. The woman gasps and shakily stands to her feet, still clutching her robe about her. Bellatrix's eyes widen.

"Floo powder! Have you any?" She screams like a mad woman, stalking over to the younger woman and clutching at her bare shoulders. The woman turns her head to the side and sobs. "Stop, please!" She says in a hoarse, shaking voice, apparently not having heard Bellatrix's question or simply ignoring it. "I'm a Pureblood, I swear it!"

"I don't care what you are! I just need to get out of here!" She hisses, and pushes the sobbing woman up against the wall. "Now, Have you any Floo Powder!"

"F-Floo? Yes.. I.." She reaches into her robes again and comes out with a thin vial filled with a fine silver powder. Bellatrix releases her grip to grab it, and then she takes a step back.

"Consider yourself saved!" She grins and wicked grin, it seems to make the other woman cringe.

"Oh, come off it." She rolls her eyes. "And next time you're out wandering alone have you _wand out_."

Bellatrix doesn't wait for a response. She honestly hadn't been expecting on to begin with anyway. She turns on her heel and nearly skips in the opposite direction, towards Knockturn Alley, Borgin & Burkes, and her escape.

* * *

The sound of the fireplace erupting in flame startles Hermione to the point of nearly yelling. She waits in timid silence afterwards, hoping against hope that it's only Bellatrix. Only Bellatrix. Hermione doesn't really have time to think about how strange a hope that is, however, because the moment Bellatrix is out of the fireplace she's heading over to the closet door. Hermione, not yet peeking out of the hole in the wall, hadn't even been ready for it, so when the door opens with a smash all Hermione has time to do is turn her head before…

"_CRUCIO!"_

Hermione chokes out a scream. Her fingernails scratch against the floorboards as she tries to hold herself up beneath the torrent of horrible pain. She abandons her desperate attempt to resist and the weight of it pulls her to the floor. Beneath and seemingly apart from the pain she can feel her body twitching and twisting rapidly.

Bellatrix lifts the curse then, and stands quite still. She raises the wand up to appraise it, one eyebrow raised. She breaths heavily, and her eyes gleam with a terrible light.

"And now, it works. What's the matter with your wand, mudblood? Is it as flawed as its former owner?"

Hermione shivers on the ground and tries to move, to at least lift her gaze up to the older woman. It's hard to think straight, as if a blindfold has been put over her mind. Her own wand is being used to torture her. She feels sick.

"It must not like you very much..." She manages to say at last. The sarcasm in her voice is thick; Bellatrix doesn't miss it.

"Oh, I'm sure it doesn't, but that's not what I mean! It obeys me against you, but in nothing else! Perhaps it's YOU that it doesn't like!"

Hermione stopped to think about this. Why would her wand only work against her in Bellatrix's hands? That didn't make any sense.

"Only against me? Are you _sure_?" She says, her voice high and tense, but gaining confidence too.

Bellatrix's dark eyes narrow in skepticism and distaste. "An experiment then. And if you're wrong you'll be punished!" She sings that last line like an excited child as she turns and points her wand at the lock on the closet door.

"Collorportus." She whispers. She looks somewhat taken aback when the door actually locks.

"It works here. But _only_ here?" She remarks as she drops her hand to her hip. She'd thought of mentioning that _no other_ wand had worked for her either, but thought better on it. Bellatrix was the sort of person who didn't reveal a poor hand in a card game until she'd toppled the table over and thrown a hex. And not being able to use a wand was, in Bellatrix's eyes, the purest form of a bad hand.

"You are a clever one, aren't you?" She murmurs slowly. Her long curls provide Hermione with an interesting silhouette to look at when she finally lifts her gaze.

"Yes. And you could be working a better Imperturbable Charm. You need to cross your wand over your chest, and I know that you didn't because the dust doesn't settle! Oh, and I think your Protego Totalum must have faded. You did cast Protego Totalum, didn't you? And Cave Inimicum would have helped, too. Or a Caterwaulling Charm, for that matter."

Hermione speaks very quickly, as if she'd had this all bottled up within and suddenly been able to release it. After she's finished with it she sighs heavily, and immediately starts regretting her admonitions as the silence thickens. She honestly doesn't even expect Bellatrix to understand half of what she's saying, so it's a surprise to her when the older woman actually _does._

"_Would have _helped?" Bellatrix says in a dark and severe tone that makes Hermione's heart skip a beat.


	7. Chapter 7

Hermione wasn't sure how she'd let it slip. She wasn't like that. She blamed it mostly on lack of food and sleep, but the very presence of Bellatrix Lestrange was something that weighed heavily on her composure. She had literally spent hours thinking about how to react and reply to all the sorts of things she thought Bellatrix might try, but actually experiencing it seems to be a different beast entirely.

She'd been dragged from the closet and tied to a chair. She still remembers how Bellatrix's thin fingers had felt on her wrist, and she was sure there'd be a bruise by tomorrow. _If there is a tomorrow, _she reminds herself. The urge to survive is strong in her still, and that sentiment is just enough to keep her from losing herself completely.

Bellatrix stands behind the chair where Hermione sits. Hermione can't see her, but she can hear her tapping her wand against one of the fingers of her other hand hastily. After a while, the tapping stops, and Hermione tenses up as the wand tip is pressed hard into the side of her neck.

"Tell. Me. _Everything_."

Hermione tries to remember if she'd planned on telling Bellatrix about the Malfoy's plot to steal her. What good would it have done, truly? She couldn't imagine Bellatrix fighting her own family for the sake of a mudblood. Hm, had she just referred to herself as a—

"Answer me!" Came Bellatrix's screech. Hermione jumps as much as her confines would allow.

"Th-the Malfoys! Lucious. Narcissa." The wand digs further into the soft flesh of Hermione's neck; it feels like it might break the skin. She splutters, trying to find the words. "They came in! Tried to find me!"

Bellatrix's foreboding silence looms like a shadow.

"How do you know this, mudblood?"

"I…" Her voice trails off. She decides to lie. She doesn't want Bellatrix to know about the hole in the wall. "I heard them. They were talking to each other."

Bellatrix relaxes her arm, and the pressure on Hermione's neck fades. The older woman walks around the chair slowly, darkly contemplative.

"That can't be. Those protective spells are supposed to block sound."

"They only block the sound that comes from _within_ the protected area. You would have needed to cast it twice if you didn't want me to hear anything." Despite being bound to a chair and threatened, Hermione's know-it-all aspect takes precedence. She can't even stop herself.

Bellatrix looks like she might laugh. "Oughtn't you to be the one to cast them, then?"

Hermione pauses only for a second. "I would, if you'd like."

Now Bellatrix does laugh; the sound of it makes something in Hermione's stomach twist. "_If I'd like? _Why would I risk giving you a wand?"

This sounds more like a compliment than anything to Hermione, but she knows better than to point it out. "I could cast most of them with my hands tied behind my back. Blindfolded."

Bellatrix stares down at her. Her wild eyes are narrowed, but more from introspection than malice. Hermione wonders what she must be thinking.

The older woman bends down suddenly, getting closer to Hermione than ever before. Hermione can feel the soft, wispy black curls brush against her neck. It sends a chill down her spine. Bellatrix stares her down. The whites of her eyes glow like the moon in the semi-darkness of the room. All Hermione can hear is the thick hammering sound of her heartbeat. After a few seconds longer, Bellatrix straightens back up and turns away.

"I don't need a _mudblood_ to aid me." Her voice seeps into the air like a bitter chill. "However. If you are so keen as to offer up your services, I will find a use for them."

Hermione wonders then if perhaps she ought to have kept her mouth shut.

* * *

Bellatrix slams the thick dungeon door open so fiercely that the sound of it, akin to a train hitting a concrete wall, echoes for seconds afterwards. The man, once huddled in on himself in the corner, jumps and gasps.

Bellatrix stalks into the candle-lit dungeon. Her fingers are tightly wrapped around the mudblood's wand. And her knuckles are white. She stops a few feet in front of the prisoner and lifts her wand hand to the light.

"This wand, old man. There's something the matter with it. You need to tell me what."

Garrick Ollivander, Britain's most famous wand maker, raises his head as much as possible. His watery, bloodshot eyes widen.

"Miss Granger's wand. 10 and ¾". Vine. Dragon—"

"I KNOW that much. I want to know why it won't _work_!" Bellatrix's aura is one of electric hellfire. Ollivander cowers, trembling visibly.

"Does it not work… at all?" His shaking, quiet voice breaks the silence.

Bellatrix's wild eyes travel from Ollivander to the wand. She stares down at it with disgust.

"It only works in this Manor. It won't work outside of it. Not a damn thing happens! Now, TELL ME WHY."

Ollivander pauses. His mind races for an answer he knows he's expected to give. Bellatrix slowly bends her wrist to point the wand at him. When she speaks her voice is soft and unforgiving.

"It will work against you."

"T-that sort of response is unheard of… I don't know—"

"_CRUCIO!"_

Bellatrix has always been able to feel the Cruciatus Curse reverberating off of every victim. She can feel it like one might hear an echo. Everyone feels different when they're faced with total agony. An idle part of her twisted mind reaches a sudden conclusion: Torturing the mudblood had felt different than ever before. After she lifts the wand and the old man crumples, she can feel the emptiness unfulfilled. What the hell was wrong with her? It hadn't always been like this.

"There's… something else." She says quietly. Her voice feels miles away from her body and mind. "Another wand disobeyed me; it wouldn't work at all."

Ollivander, coughing and choking for air, freezes. He looks up. Bellatrix can tell immediately that he knows something. She takes a step forward.

"What is it! Tell me!"

"Wizard chooses wand…" Ollivander says in a hoarse whisper.

Bellatrix brandishes the wand at him. He raises his skinny arms up to shield himself and speaks more loudly and quickly. "A rare incident! Most people who've heard of it don't believe it's true! _The wand chooses the wizard, but it's not always clear why_. That much is certain." He pauses and coughs a few times. "But sometimes it goes the other way. And in those very rare occurrences, the wizard chooses the wand, and in comparison all others are useless…"

He trails off, and chances a glance up into Bellatrix's unforgiving eyes. She stares down at him, but her mind is elsewhere.

"That's… ridiculous." Bellatrix murmurs. "You're lying!" She raises her wand.

"It is no lie!" Ollivander wails, clutching at his ragged robes. "There is... something more."

"If the wand that is chosen still holds allegiance to another wizard, in that the wand itself was not rightfully _won, _it will only work in the presence of this other."

Bellatrix stares at him with a horrible silence. This has to be a nightmare. A final one given to her by the Dark Lord. She, the most skilled witch in the family and the greatest of the Dark Lord's followers, resigned to this fate? It had to be some sick joke. Her eyes wander down to the wand in her hand. The only wand she's now able to use, and only in the presence… of the _mudblood_. How had it come to be like this? Or rather…

"How do we fix it, old man?" She growls lowly.

"I… fix it? I'm not sure that's possible…" He whispers.

Bellatrix's fingers tighten on her wand as she raises it once more. "Let's _see_ what's possible, then!"


	8. Chapter 8

Author's note: Sorry I haven't written in a while.

* * *

_The business of love is__ cruelty which,__ by our wills, we transform __to live together._

Hermione can sense Bellatrix's foul mood as soon as she returns. An invisible cloud of darkness fills the room. Hermione has the feeling that it has something to do with her, but she can't imagine what. When Bellatrix kicks a flimsy wooden chair across the room and breaks it to pieces with a nonverbal spell that flashes the room a sick, bright green, Hermione gasps. She wants to look away but can't as Bellatrix pulls the sheets off her bed and throws them against the wall in one powerful, fluid motion. A stool and table are overturned magically and crash against the floor.

Bright purple flame leaps up inside the fireplace. The entire room lights up and Hermione has to squint her eyes to see. As the fire grows, Bellatrix releases a violent scream. Hermione can feel it in the pit of her stomach, and it's then that she pulls away, pushing herself back against the wall of the crawlspace. She feels it give slightly, but she's too caught up in everything else to process it.

"Bella! What's going on?"

Successive hard knocks at the room's door cause Bellatrix's hung head to turn sharply. Her sister's voice is immediately recognizable to her despite the roaring fire. Hermione pushes herself towards the hole in the wall again, just in time to see Bellatrix, with one languid sweep of her wand, bring the state of the room to its previous condition. The power of it makes Hermione's heart rise up to her throat. She, too, had heard Narcissa's voice.

A small smile appears on Bellatrix's face as she stands still, listening to her sister pound against the door once more. "Bellatrix! Are you in there?"

"Coming, sister." Bellatrix says in a tone that drips with a terrible delight. Hermione can feel her heart dropping into her stomach now.

Bellatrix opens the door wide, and Narcissa storms in. She looks both confused and afraid as she peers around the room. Her expression falters as if she'd been expecting something else. As she walks further in, Bellatrix quietly shuts the door. Her dark eyes narrow with satisfaction as the lock, barely audible, clicks.

"You had me worried, Bella…" Narcissa says slowly, no longer having to yell now that the roaring fire has ceased. "I thought…" She glances back to see the door closed, though she seems not to respond to it. "…something was wrong."

Bellatrix moves slowly towards the center of the room where Narcissa stands. She allows the silence to weigh heavily before speaking, and when she does speak her voice is smooth and smoky.

"Something _is_ wrong, dear sister."

Narcissa pauses, but only for a second. Her delicate hand rises to touch the edge of the dark wooden table. Narcissa's skin is pale in that longed-for beautiful way, and makes Bellatrix's skin look pallid in comparison. "How so?" She asks in a hushed tone.

Hermione can see everything from her vantage point, and it's no wonder that her eyes widen as she watches Bellatrix's strong hand dart out to grab her sister's wrist and pull her close. It's akin to an embrace, Hermione thinks, however one-sided. Bellatrix, not so nearly as towering to her sister as she had seemed to Hermione, stares levelly into those pale blue eyes.

"Someone has snuck into my room." Bellatrix's lips whisper coolly, only inches from Narcissa's own. Narcissa looks into her eyes, but says nothing.

"Do you tremble, sister?" Bellatrix asks tauntingly. The fingers round Narcissa's wrist had never left, and now Bellatrix raises her sister's hand fractionally higher. "Do you worry about me?" She pauses, and her thin lips twist into a wicked smile.

"Or do you worry… about YOURSELF?" And in the next moment Bellatrix pushes Narcissa with her free hand, spinning her around while she pulls her arm back and up, forcing her sister's hand up hard towards her neck. Narcissa falters, crying out as she falls to her knees, now facing away from Bellatrix. She slams her eyes shut, but does not struggle.

"NO! I… care for all of us!" She says. Bellatrix's black curls contrast against Narcissa's fading blonde as the older sister, standing behind, leans forward for a moment before settling to her knees as well. Her whisper is close, and her lips brush against Narcissa's ear.

"I care for you, Cissy." Bellatrix's thin fingers find Narcissa's exposed neck, and she touches her there, somewhere between being affectionate and a death grip. "I don't want you to come to harm."

Tears form beneath Narcissa's closed eyes as Bellatrix continues.

"I have done a great deal for our family. I alone chose to serve the Dark Lord. Consider yourself spared of this, and _leave things up to me_."

Those final words, spoken like a curse, seem to mark the end of her harshness. Bellatrix loosens her grip on Narcissa and stands. Narcissa stays kneeling, back towards her older sister.

"Now get out."

Bellatrix stands quite still, statuesque in the growing moonlight, for long after Narcissa's departure. Hermione watches, not knowing what might happen or what might be going on in that twisted mind. Suddenly, Bellatrix moves. At first, Hermione can't even tell what the other woman is doing, but after Bellatrix lets that black, expensive-looking lace vest drop from her shoulders and down her arms it's not hard to tell what's happening. Hermione freezes. She ought to look away, but just as she's about to do so a glint of light catches on a silver dagger on Bellatrix's hip. Bellatrix's thin, pale arms are reaching back to untie her bodice, and Hermione stares trance-like as those nimble fingers find and untie knots. Bellatrix's naked back looks fragile. Her bones and ribs press up against her sallow skin, and the shadows play on her small, taut muscles that flex as the older woman reaches up to release a clasp from her hair. Hermione thinks then that Bellatrix truly looks like one of the Old Witches, from the ancient times, with her hair down and wearing only the long, black dress skirt and boots.

Bellatrix turns, and the angle lets the moonlight and shadow play along her breasts. Hermione notices markings on her chest, but she can't tell if they're magical markings, tattoos, or something else entirely. The Dark Mark on her forearm is darker than black. Bellatrix glances down at it, her expression unreadable to the girl behind the wall. The older woman strides over to the closet, too far for Hermione's eyes to follow her. When she comes back into view she fully dressed again. Again, without warning, she heads for the closet. Hermione jumps back and throws herself to the ground despite her screaming muscles.

The door opens like a gunshot.

"Get up, mudblood." Bellatrix's voice is thick with contempt. Hermione nearly sobs at the sound of it. She had thought telling her about Narcissa (however inadvertently) would have allowed her some sort of reprieve. She pushes herself up shakily, having to bend down at the waist to stand in the small space. She rests her hand on the wall to steady herself and wonders idly how much more exertion her body will allow.

"Come here…" Bellatrix says shortly as she pulls out her wand. Hermione hesitates for a moment, but the look on Bellatrix's face starts to become severe and she finds her legs carrying her forward. When she's close enough, Bellatrix reaches out her wand, and, touching the tip of it to Hermione's collarbone, disapparates.

Hermione had instinctively closed her eyes when the wand had touched her. When she opens them she gasps audibly. Bellatrix hears her and laughs quietly. They're in a luxurious bath. Not as large as the largest ones in Hogwarts, but just as lavish. The sound of running water echoes up against the high-vaulted ceilings and stained-glass windows. Everything is filigreed in silver or gold. The marble tile alone must have cost a fortune. _It's more like a cathedral than a bathroom_, Hermione thinks. _And such a waste._

"Don't stand there gawking. Get yourself cleaned up." Bellatrix says quietly as she looks down at her fingers to inspect her nails.

Hermione looks down. Her sweater and jeans are filthy. Her hair, now that she reaches up to touch it, is matted. It's as if a batch of Polyjuice just wore off. The shock of it makes her want to cry.

"…Or do mudbloods never bathe?" Bellatrix coos tauntingly, and even though Hermione knows it's a jab to force her into action and wants so badly to resist, she gives in. She walks, and finds herself having to nearly limp, towards one of the pools of water. She bends down to dip a finger in. It's perfectly warm. She pauses then, and stands up. She casts a furtive glance behind herself even though she already knows. Bellatrix is still there, leaning up against a marble column. She looks amused. Hermione looks around, but there's nowhere else. Her heart nearly stops at the thought that perhaps Bellatrix had _known _about the hole in the wall, and this was her punishment. It would certainly be much more humiliating like this, Hermione thought, but then, she guessed that that was probably the point.


End file.
